


Come Rain or Come Shine

by Debaucherie



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Bisexual Rafael Barba, Broadway References, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Pride and Prejudice References, Slow Burn, goodness me tags are difficult, more tags & characters to be added with more chapters, platonic barson, sort of but not really but also yes, sort of??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28057791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debaucherie/pseuds/Debaucherie
Summary: “Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it’s gritty and dirty and possessive. Sometimes it’s not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth.” — Azra T.Unexpected propositions lead to a possessive passion, and two individuals learn the bounds of their love.
Relationships: Rafael Barba/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Like a fair few out there, I spent the majority of my time in lockdown getting into Law & Order: SVU and, once I hit season 14, episode 2, I was an absolute goner for our favorite Cuban-American ADA. This work started off as a little drabble, but sort of took on a life of its own once I realized I wanted to craft a story that could connect the dots between some throwaway lines, deleted scenes, and casual mentions. This story will mostly feature Rafael, Olivia, Sonny, my OC, and will also expand on some minor / background characters, as well. Also, because loving Rafael Barba means loving Raúl Esparza, there will be some shameless Broadway references thrown in here and there. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Starts mid-season 18 (Dec. 2016), and will follow the canon timeline!
> 
> As always, all characters, canon plotlines, etc., belong to Law & Order: SVU / Dick Wolf. Credit for the title goes to Arlen & Mercer, and the summary quote belongs to Azra T. I'll likely update the summary once my brain dreams up something juicier :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after the Cash Lewis trial, Rafael Barba receives an unwanted proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter trigger warnings for: canon-typical mentions of assault, references to 2016 US election / winner, minor mention of bodily harm (used for metaphor, not description.)
> 
> The song inspiration for this chapter is "I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You," from the musical Evita.

OFFICE OF ADA RAFAEL BARBA  
1 HOGAN PLACE  
_December 8, 2016_

* * *

Once again, Eva Lim is stopped before she can make it to the ever-unreachable altar of ADA Barba’s office. Perhaps it truly was some lofted holy place, where the warmth of the doorway was only a ruse for the cold which lay inside. 

The conversation comes as expected as ever, not from the man in question — _never_ from him— but instead from his secretary, a woman she’d practically befriended by now over numerous cancellations and the ensuing apology accompanying each. In the place of the previous six would-be meetings, the two women had instead shared cups of coffee and cheerful chats, bonding over Prosecutor Barba's singular _talent_ for slipping away from both their grasps. Perhaps it was _gauche_ to think, but Eva half-expected to receive an invitation to the paralegal's upcoming nuptials, given how their more recent conversations had turned to their lives outside of work. Her eyes study the lovely emerald engagement ring as Carmen confirms the prosecutor's whereabouts after a couple of taps at her phone.

“He had to take a late lunch,” the paralegal explains with an apologetic smile. “I can try rescheduling you for a later date if you’d like, although—”

“I know. He’ll likely find some other thing to take its place.” The willowy brunette reaches into her work bag, pulling out the file she’d once again prepared for yet another ill-fated meeting. “If you could give this to him along with my contact information, and… I dunno, maybe pass along the fact that 6pm constitutes _dinner —_ not quite a late lunch.”

The file finds a place atop a set stack awaiting the prosecutor’s return, some labeled with _**WITNESS STATEMENTS** , _others with _**TRIAL PREP**. _Carmen tidies up the stack before returning to her computer screen, scanning for her boss’s next availability. “You’re fine with around this time again?”

“It’s a twenty-minute meeting, tops. I’m genuinely available whenever Mr. Barba is. Morning, noon, night — whenever. I’ll even bring food next time.”

“I won't lie, it's typically a good way to get him to sit down," mentions the assistant casually as she schedules a new appointment, despite already knowing how inherently useless it was. For all the time her boss had spent in front of cameras and press to discuss his cases, the man had little concern over furthering his own public image for political gains. No matter how good he was at delivering the perfect soundbite for the public to consume, the Alex Muñoz situation had left too sour a taste in his mouth, and any aspirations he once held for the political side of the law fell by the wayside, along with a friendship which once spanned decades.

"Have you got any recommendations I should keep in mind?" Asks Eva, pulling Carmen from her musings. 

“Well... _Ibeyi_ on West Broadway is what he asks for most frequently when he’s stuck in meetings he doesn’t want to be in. They do Franco-Cuban cuisine. I'll give you my contact there," offers the paralegal, returning to her phone.

“I'll make it easier for you. Chef Quinta Serrano. No clams. No squid,” a low voice interrupts from the doorway, and one needs not even look to know the sinful smugness of his countenance as he enters the office, a few fingers of whiskey settled in his belly after the all-too-easy victory secured in court earlier today. “And, you should probably know that Quinta's _costillas de puerco_ is infinitely better than her _beef bourguignon_ ," speaks the prosecutor, a casual charm dripping from every word as he saunters past his unexpected visitor with little more than a curt nod and a self-satisfied smile.

The stack of files catches his attention momentarily, though Eva's _meager_ offering is decisively dismissed back to Carmen's desk with a resounding thud. His gaze returns to the unannounced woman soon enough, or rather, the details of her forest green suit — _Givenchy_ , he mentally notes with a hint of admiration — before he asks, dryly amused, “Are you here to sell me Girl Scout Cookies?”

The question should sting. Its underlying implications — that she was an unfamiliar face in a building where everyone knew everyone and therefore didn’t belong, that she looked young and so had nothing of importance to offer, that the man hadn’t even bothered to check his calendar for the day to realize he should’ve been expecting her— should wrap itself around her thoughts and cause her nose to wrinkle up in offense. Yet, her countenance remains placid as ever, as practiced an art as any other she's mastered in her thirty-three years of life. Onyx eyes fix sharply on the man as her heels press further into the carpet of the office, committed to cementing herself in the meeting which had once appeared elusive beyond measure.

Never one to shy away from a warning shot, Eva simpers, entirely too pleased with the opportunity unraveling before her, "Actually, we have a meeting, Mr. Barba. Glad to see that your so-called _late lunch_ didn’t spill over into dessert.” The woman, grounded in her new resolve, retrieves the file off Carmen’s desk and, unwilling to allow the opportunity to slip through her fingers, she cants her head in the direction of his office, gaze unfailingly expectant.

“So we do.” The prosecutor acquiesces, lips forming a tight, thin line. “You’re good for the evening, Carmen,” he dismisses, holding the door open for his unexpected guest. “The city’s go-to campaign management firm has requested to meet with me a total of… _six times_ ,” he starts, his last two words punctured with more than just a _hint_ of annoyance as he sinks into his dark leather chair. “Has the city suddenly run out of aspiring Kennedys?”

She waves away the slight, unwilling to play into his delaying tactic. “I’ll keep it simple, Mr. Barba. The Lexington Group has done its research, and you've piqued our interest.”

“With all due respect, you clearly haven’t done _enough_ research because you would already know my answer if you had.” The response comes with the standard bite, that same sharpness which won him a fair few trials in court: cutting, but never deep enough to cause serious damage — no more than a flesh wound, but should anyone sustain one too many, they’d certainly find themselves in a world of trouble.

“You know," the woman starts, words forming her own warning shot of sorts, "Saying ‘with all due respect’ before something rude doesn’t automatically make it respectful."

Contrary to her anticipation, his perpetual smirk does not fade at that, and she's instead rewarded with a half-hearted chuckle. “Save it for an actual client’s crisis management, Miss…” The man’s voice trails off as he haphazardly flips through the file in search of his answer, a momentary lapse in preparation that Eva delights in.

“Talk about research. I’ve contacted your office six times for this meeting and you couldn’t even bother to learn my name." The comment comes coolly, without a hint of compromise. “You kept this meeting on your schedule, whether you meant to or not.”

Leaning back in his chair, he offers simply, “A mistake easily resolved by a dismissal, if you’d care to leave.”

“Is everyone in the DA’s office prone to dismissing things just to keep their lives simple?” Eva questions immediately, prompting a scornful laugh from the prosecutor.

Perhaps it was a nasty trick to get the man to hear her out, but the DA's recent scandal — a veritable storm of alleged corruption, rumored payoffs, and the mishandling of multiple assault cases — cast too dark a pall over anyone even remotely affiliated with the office. The prosecutor, clearly not immune to the fallout of the actions of his boss, acquiesces to a reluctant silence in turn, a casual wave of his hand permitting her to continue.

“As I was saying… Even if the current DA runs next year, there's no chance in hell he'll win over the public, not after this year's scandals. So, on behalf of The Lexington Group, I'm here to simply say that we've identified you as a top candidate for the seat, and we'd like to convince you to consider a possible political bid."

“The election is in eleven months,” interrupts Rafael, and soon enough the words tumble out of his mouth, barreling along as the gears of his mind start spinning. “I’m an outlying candidate, and one who currently has to report back to the very man you’re looking to replace. Tell me again how this is a recipe for success?”

“Frankly, the public is starting to demand better from the DA’s office. _Loudly_ , too. DA Russom’s gross mishandling of the Lester Cohen case is the reason why you’ve got protestors outside this building every morning hounding you for answers. And, as more of the truth is coming out—”

“After hearing the allegations against him, no one wanted to see Cohen locked up more than me, I assure you. But, the DA wanted to handle the case himself, and…the chips just fell where they did.”

“The _chips_? The DA doesn’t get to stack a repeat rapist’s deck just because the rapist in question is a celebrity attorney. Not to mention someone who happens to be one of the biggest donors to the DA's campaign. I’m sure even you can agree with that.”

“Those donations have since been returned and apologies have been—”

“Mr. Barba." She interrupts earnestly, uninterested in hearing the same soundbite that'd played time and time again in the daily news since the scandal broke out. "Off the record. Please. Just so I know that Lexington isn't looking to get into bed with someone as corruptible as Russom."

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” the prosecutor intones, each syllable of the sentence clearly well-practiced in response to the daily reporters asking for comment. After a moment, he nods solemnly, eyes blazing as he silently commands the gesture to be kept off the record.  
  
She returns the nod, privately pleased with the man’s concession — and relieved, too, to know that even if he was a bit of a _prick_ , there was still some strength of character behind it all. Eva had assumed as much from the preliminary period of her research, attending a few trials when she could. Each one confirmed her suspicion that the man was not _just_ a convincing orator ( as all good lawyers _should_ be ) but that his competency was born from a commitment to justice, even when the victim in question had been rejected by seemingly every other faction of society. There was a heart there, she was sure of it, even if the man was hellbent on hiding it under alternating layers of ice and riposte. 

The thought softens her, a contemplative smile gracing her features as she continues, “The point here is… That much money, the people involved, the number of cases dropped at his insistence — the public’s grown smart enough to connect the dots and they are demanding change. You’d be the right candidate to heal the wounds Russom’s inflicted upon the office and, in doing so, restore the public’s faith in it.”

A silence settles between them. There’s only so much that he can say on the matter, after all, given that the controversy’s dust has only just started to settle. He moves in his seat to reach for his favored little golden pen, balancing it between two thick fingers as he continues, a dark whimsy coloring his voice, “I have it on very good authority from a _multitude_ of potential constituents that they would prefer me staying in the confines of this office and no other.”

"I'd say that only means you're good at your job."

"And if they've said they prefer me working in the basement?"

"Sounds like you've done your job well enough to piss some people off. However, I'd rather not operate in hypotheticals to demonstrate why you'd be a solid candidate, counselor. Facts and figures, polling, predictions — all that can be found in there,” she explains, glancing over to the file in his hands, “To summarize it: you test well. The interviews and the soundbites you've given to the press over the past years have consistently been received _extraordinarily_ well. You’ve got a good mix of high- and low-profile cases. Our research hasn't pulled up any scandals, and you check off every box every other DA has, and then some."

"And the other boxes I check off?" He asks, absentmindedly flipping through the file. "For example, the fact that most candidates make themselves known _far_ earlier than the very year in which they’re campaigning. Or, even something simpler and easily just as divisive — the fact that New York City’s never had an immigrant District Attorney, let alone one from a veritable dictatorship.”

“Technically, both qualify you as something of an outlier. But, as of a month ago, we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that an outlying candidate — someone no one predicted would get far at the onset of the electoral season — can actually win. In politics, there aren’t really _outliers_ anymore. They're more like…unexpected players in the game, but _players_ nonetheless.”

“Yes, well, I’m not the President-elect, nor do I have any intention of _playing_ his kind of game,” Rafael returns bitterly, peering at the woman from under the heaviness of his brow. “For your firm’s sake, I hope you're not using _him_ as your selling point to prospective clients."

“It's not the fairest of examples, I know. All I mean by it is that outlying candidates can’t be as easily disregarded as they have been in the past. More to the point, though,” Eva pauses to meet his gaze properly now, coffee-black eyes narrowed on the mystifying hazel of his own, ever-unrelenting in her single-minded attempt to convince the man. “DA Russom refused to prosecute Lester Cohen. If he dropped the charges against one high-profile man despite the number of allegations piled up against him, I can’t expect he’d go after the President-elect.”

“But you think I’ve got enough of a death wish that I would?”

“I think you’re unafraid of prosecuting wealthy, famous men for the crimes they’ve committed, provided that the evidence is there. You're not blinded by the sheen of their celebrity. It’s a strength of yours that happens to be the downfall of your boss, and I think now is the prime time to capitalize on that.”

He holds her gaze for only a moment before resting back in his chair, head tipped back as he asks lazily, almost amused, “Prosecuting sex crimes is my strength?”

_“Pursuing justice,_ Mr. Barba.” Eva corrects, and the firmness of her tone causes his attention to pivot back to her. “Justice for victims of sexual assault. That first case you worked here, the one with that slimy TV presenter — you egged him on to demonstrate the severity of his actions and, in doing so, got choked half to death. The willingness to go there is what won you the case. You're committed, unafraid. Perhaps a bit, I dunno, _reckless,_ at times — but that sort of passion is what captures people. The last election saw everything change; it's not just facts and figures that win you political seats, it's having something that people connect with, for better or for worse."

“Adam Cain was one in a million. Not all of my trials have had heat-seeking missiles for defendants, nor have all the cases been so… _shiny_.”

“I’d argue that over the course of your career, you’ve handled enough heat to forge a diamond. Maybe even two.”

The corner of his lips curls upwards in silent appreciation of her wit as he allows the guileless remark to linger as it is, without the menace of his standard riposte. Eva remains silent too, clearly awaiting his next move, not unlike some observant animal prepared to retaliate at the first sound of a nearby threat. In an unusual way, he is keenly aware of this — perhaps only because he’s not unlike such a creature himself — and instead decides to suspend her anticipation for a little while longer. After all, he’s always been one to revel in moments of unsteady interlude. It's not lazy silence that fills the room now, not really, but two separate expectations settling in the space between them, each person wordlessly willing the other to break the quiet first.

After a few moments more, Eva can't help but clear her throat, and Rafael accepts it as her unspoken admission of defeat. ( In truth, there's only so long he too can remain unmoving or unspoken, but this is one of the many things he's unwilling to admit. ) 

"I appreciate your persistence," begins the prosecutor, and Eva can't help but note how _genuine_ he sounds, for what may be the first time since their impromptu meeting began. "But, there really are only so many ways a simple kid from the South Bronx can say he's uninterested in politics. Without resorting to more desperate measures, that is.”  
  
“Are you really uninterested in politics? Or..." The woman starts in response, stopping herself before finishing the second half of the thought. She's arrived at what she's certain is the very last card in her deck, her last chess piece left on the board: the one chance she has left to turn the tides away from the man's impossible pull.

Then again, perhaps it's too risky — _quit while you’re ahead, you silly girl_ , growls the hesitant voice gnawing at the back of her throat as the words fail to come.

"Or...?" He asks, eyebrow cocked, inviting her to continue the line of questioning.

She’d walked into the meeting thinking it would be so simple, that she’d prove convincing enough just by discussing the detriment of the current DA’s recent actions and how Rafael could right those wrongs — but he’d met her at every argument, never once letting up his own fight and forever doing it with that smirk affixed to his face, equal parts charm and condescension. She was ashamed to say that she’d enjoyed it, almost in a perverse way: at the very least, the man _was_ an excellent sparring partner.

And yet, her inner masochist wanted _more._ Or, more specifically, she wanted to see him undone, to watch the ivory tower facade crumble and reveal the man whom she believed existed underneath it all: to prove her suspicion that Rafael Barba was, in fact, a _man_ with a heart, not just a marble myth with a tongue as sharp as his gaze. And so, with her voice lowered and stare fixed straightforward, already anticipating the sting of the fates as they decided whether or not the man would be called ‘candidate’ in addition to ‘counselor,’ she asks, “Or, are you really just scared that the people of this city won’t choose ‘a simple kid from the South Bronx’?”

“ _Excuse me_?” He shifts forward in his seat, clearly incensed. There’s an outrage to his tone, a hint of insult — as expected, her provocation relented itself to delivering her his full attention. No more distractions, delaying tactics, or empty conversations that skirted around that beating heart he seemed so intent on hiding away any time he wasn't in the courtroom. _This is either the end of_ ** _everything_** _or the beginning of_ ** _something_** , Eva thinks with a barely perceptible smile, lip trembling, seemingly pulled under the weight of her own cautious supplication.   
  
“You weren’t wrong, Mr. Barba, when you said that I hadn’t done all my research. But it’s because some things don’t need to be researched in order for me to intrinsically know that they hold true.” She leans forward to meet him, the deep honey of her eyes imploring him for a moment of understanding. “I know that you grew up an immigrant child with your family's expectations on your shoulders, and how...because of that, you had to decide which parts of yourself to sacrifice, just so you'd have a chance of moving up in the world. And, I understand that politics might not—"

" _How_ do you know that?"

"Because we aren't so different, you and I. Your story isn't exactly new to my ears." There are remnants of a fragmented childhood splintering her voice like a collection of broken bones, mended over time by fleeting moments of peace. Eva forces herself to find her determination once more, brushing past the momentary lapse into vulnerability as she continues, “There’s little risk here, when you’re so respected and admired — probably even _feared_. This building provides a certain safety to you, as long as you continue appealing to the higher powers that be.”

“Higher powers?” Rafael repeats almost incredulously, though it's not just out of amusement. His humor is his own escape from vulnerability, an indelicate way of working around something he'd long viewed as unnecessary and to be avoided at all costs. "Do me a favor and make sure Judge Bertuccio doesn't hear that.”

Eva doesn’t even deign to register the joke, and instead bats it away as easily as she had done with the prosecutor's earlier slights, adrenaline carrying each word to the next with increasing fervor as she responds, “As an ADA, you have to succumb to the will of those above you, but when you run a campaign, the _people_ become your higher power — you work to serve them, and in order to get even just the chance at doing so, you have to first appeal **_to_** them.” Her next statement is quiet, almost an aside. "I think we both know you'd make an excellent candidate who's well-deserving of the office..."

"But?" He asks in anticipation.

“But… Knowing what I know from being an immigrant myself, I’d say that you’ve got the same fear of anyone who’s grown up the way I’m certain you must have: the fear of risking it all just to be _rejected_.” In an unusual way, there’s a request written into the spaces between her words, a silent plea asking him to show just a hint of vulnerability, even when she would never allow herself to do the same. As if to soften the blow, she offers in a smaller voice, a ghost of a smile resting in the crook of her mouth, “Just so we’re clear — my job is to make sure the public chooses you, and I am certain I can deliver that. All I ask of you is to drop your defenses just _enough_ to give us both a fighting chance.”

The room succumbs to silence once more, an unreadable expression clouding the man’s countenance. Her personal curiosity leads her to wonder if he’ll respond with one of his famous courtroom diatribes, an impassioned argument that _would_ cement her own belief in the existence of a certain _fire_ underneath all that ice — all the while tearing her own arguments apart, piece by piece.

Or, perhaps, he’d succumb to the adage first put forth by the Greeks, and already asserted by him earlier in their conversation: that desperate times called for desperate measures, and if he truly wished to be rid of her once and for all, perhaps he’d resort to **begging** — _and what a sight that would be_ , thinks the woman, almost wishing that the notion would prove true, if only to grant the satisfaction of a myopic win in the face of a larger defeat.

“Miss Lim, was it?” Asks the prosecutor at last, holding the business card which had buried within the file to the light of his desk lamp.

It’s not the question that pulls her from her reverie, but the timbre of his voice — so calm and unaffected, a far cry from the decisive admonishment she’d anticipated, or the earnest entreaty she’d hoped for.

_Perhaps it_ **_was_ ** _too much to ask to see Rafael Barba on his knees._

“You finally found it,” she comments with a twinge of apprehension. “And, yes. Although, you can call me Eva, if you’d like.”

“Eva.” Rafael speaks her name like it’s a sigh, his tone hovering between the unknown intersection of satisfaction and displeasure. In other words, purely _indecipherable_ and precisely as he intended.

After a moment, the man moves from his office chair to the corner of the desk nearest her, his voice dipping lower still as he states with no trace of emotion to betray his own vexations, “You entered my office with the understanding that I had no interest in pursuing a political run. This was repeated to you multiple times, and still, you ignored it each and every time. In less than twenty minutes, you have…insulted my boss and therefore the integrity of this office, not to mention that used the hardship of immigration in an attempt to appeal to me. By doing all of these things, you have insulted my ability to reason and rationalize for myself. So. I’ll ask you, _Eva —_ after all _that_ , do you really expect me to want to work with you?”

All at once, the spell lifts, the mirror cracks, the plates shift. There’s an immediate chill in the atmosphere between them, and whatever hope she held that she herself was strong enough to change the tides vanishes as a bitter, seething frustration takes hold. It shouldn’t feel so personal — after all, it was _just_ a rejection from a potential client — but that was the problem with politics, wasn’t it? Where there had once been a distinct line between personal and political was blurred from the two becoming increasingly interchangeable, fodder for both press and public alike. Eva had personally advocated on behalf of Rafael Barba early on in her firm’s search for a prospective DA candidate, and to hear him so bitingly dismissive, so casually cruel… Perhaps she _had_ overstepped her bounds, but wasn’t it worth it? Just to get him to _listen_ , to understand _why_ she had such faith in him?

‘ _Had’ being the operative word here,_ she reminds herself bitterly, clenching her jaw to steel herself under the weight of her own shellshocked disappointment.

Seemingly intent on discovering her breaking point, his eyes fix steadily onto the woman as if to overwhelm her by the sheer pierce of his gaze. When it's clear she refuses to meet him, he mutters icily, “We’re done here. I trust you can show yourself out.”

Not unlike a flame suddenly burnt out on an ever-dying wick, Eva silently accepts her dismissal, collecting her briefcase and coat from the otherwise empty chair next to her as she hastens to leave a room that clearly only had enough air for one person and his ego.

She’s a fighter, though — or, that’s what she tells herself as she turns back to him before reaching the office door, intent on not only getting one last jab in, but also to prove that she can look him in the eyes even when faced with a resounding defeat. “Respectfully, Mr. Barba. It is a good thing we won’t be working together.”

“And why is that, Miss Lim?” He asks, entertaining the conversation even though he knows he's already won, countenance slipping into his standard courtroom glare — eyes looking up from underneath a heavy brow, narrowing in on his inescapable prey, baiting her and smiling all the while.

“After tonight, I have absolutely no idea how I’d spin you to the public.”

Without missing a beat, he replies simply, a smirk like a half-moon smiling down upon the tides which could only ever bend to his will, “Then maybe you’re not as good at your job as you think.”

Eva Lim exits the office in silence, head held high only out of sheer defiance, even when she’s no longer in the man’s sights. It’s a short walk from 1 Hogan Place to her Chinatown apartment, but even five minutes is long enough for her mind to replay every moment of their conversation, from bitter start to acrid finish. In what is by now standard practice after particularly difficult days, the woman pours herself a considerable glass of wine as soon as she reaches the tiny kitchen, mind still mulling over the night’s events as she downs it quickly. After one hour or so and double as many glasses finished, a gentle vibration from her business mobile pulls Eva out of her futile contemplation, brows furrowing at the presence of an unknown number, whose message reads:

_For what it’s worth, your firm should consider you their personal Evita.  
I’m just not interested in playing their Juan Perón.  
— RB_

Whether out of sheer exhaustion, the simple pleasure of understanding the reference, or some wine-heady combination of both, Eva’s lips tip upward in a small smile, one she refuses to concede is induced by a man who had so ruthlessly insulted her earlier in the evening. Thoughts fuzzy from an excess of Malbec against an otherwise empty stomach, there's little in her mind convincing her to simply shut her phone off and forget the man, the desire to have the last word too strong a hunger to ignore, as she replies:

_You never know._  
_I’d be surprisingly good for you._  
_— Evita_

Rafael allows her to have the moment of finality he was _certain_ she craved after their disastrous first exchange, even when every last breath in his body wants nothing more than to sigh out, _But would I be good for you, too?  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This grew into such an unexpectedly long chapter, but I'm glad to finally hit 'post' and start this exciting journey. There's something so nerve-wracking about introductions (both in terms of characters' first meetings and in introducing OC's to the world) but I hope you've enjoyed Eva as well as my characterization of Rafael so far. (Constructive criticism is, of course, absolutely welcome!) 
> 
> I'm hoping to post the next one in the coming week — I've written about 75% of this fic out, and so just need to flesh a few more chapters out and wrap them up in a nice little bow, all the while being terribly eager to simply get this story out into the world before Barba's return on January 7 comes along and ruins me. 
> 
> Also, yes, I've lowkey damned Lester Cohen for this fic because there was something always a bit squicky about him to me, plus he hasn't appeared on the show for a hot minute. Here's hoping he was no one's fave defense attorney!
> 
> Up next: It's the holiday season!


	2. Company.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia pays Rafael a visit, and her request sends him into a tailspin of thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter trigger warnings: n/a.
> 
> ( If you catch something that I should've labeled here, please let me know and I'll amend this immediately! )

OFFICE OF ADA RAFAEL BARBA  
1 HOGAN PLACE  
December 22, 2016  
_8:30pm_

* * *

“You're still here.” Olivia’s voice rings from the entrance to his office, the surprise evident in her tone even as an exhausted smile pulls at the corners of her lips. She closes the distance between the door to the seat opposite him with weary haste, sinking into the leather chair with a deep sigh. 

The last case had proved more taxing than expected for the both of them, every step of the way an imperfect balancing act upon an increasingly fraying tightrope. By now, Rafael doesn’t need to look up to know precisely how _drained_ she is, not when he himself feels increasingly like a candle burning at both ends the longer he works SVU’s cases. Still, he spares a glance despite himself, if only to certify by his own eyes that she hasn’t been _totally_ swept away into the tidal waves that were SVU’s child-centric cases. There was a particular drive ignited within her when it came to cases like this last one, an immediate pull to not just protect the victims from future harm, but to serve justice, to set the precedent that such moments in time should never be allowed to happen in the future.

However, the _aftermath_ of it all — that singular **heaviness** she refused to acknowledge until it was all over — lingered for many moments even after the guilty verdict was secured. This he knew as certainly as any other assured, irrevocable thing, perhaps only because he'd been there enough times before, submerged under the tremendous weight of the world with which they dealt. 

When Olivia speaks again, Rafael can't help but feel entirely grateful for her habit of pulling him out of the depths of his thoughts.

"The DA’s not hosting you in Gstaad this year?" 

“If only. He gifted us memberships to a social club instead.”

“Oh?”

“The Parkside Club,” the prosecutor explains with a roll of his eyes. “Because—”

“Because the one thing everyone wants for the holidays is to see their coworkers outside of work.” She sighs out a laugh, head balanced in one hand as she finishes his words for him.

“Well… It certainly seems to be,” counters Rafael with a knowing smirk. In the four years since they’d started working together, this had quickly become their little routine: a difficult case, a few impossible witnesses, a tough trial, and a shared bottle of liquor in celebration of victory or in woe of defeat — and, all too often, some pyrrhic combination of the two. SVU’s cases had proven time and time again that success scarcely came with the comfort of satisfaction; if they managed an easy win, it was only because the evidence was _overwhelming_ to the point of being **_disturbing_** , a fact that simply never grew easier with time or experience. Despite his best efforts, his mind frequently wondered if the lot of them — the squad, their auxiliary officers, Olivia, himself — would ever _really_ be able to shake off the horrors they’d seen and heard, or if they’d all simply go through life clinging on to whatever little happiness came their way, willfully existing under the pretense that _enough_ of those moments would be enough to salvage the damage that had already been done.

Rafael moves to retrieve the bottle of scotch and two tumblers buried in the bottom drawer of his desk in an effort to shake off ( or, more truthfully, _drink down_ ) the thoughts. As he pours one for himself, he explains, “Russom mentioned something about wanting to help me ‘get out there more,’” a roll of his eyes punctuates the statement with his signature annoyed disbelief, “But I think he’s just trying to save face with us underlings in the hope we don’t testify against him when it comes to that next year.”

Her face wrinkles up at the revelation, eyes growing wide.“ _When?_ So… It’s official?"

“You didn’t hear it from me,” mutters Rafael from the rim of his drink, taking a preliminary sip to test the new bottle’s sting before pouring an extra splash into his glass.

The lieutenant exhales a fatigued sigh, momentary frown lines forming along her forehead. “Hence the double?”

“Hence the double,” he repeats in gruff agreement, entirely uninterested in hiding his own exhausted scowl before he motions to prepare a drink for his friend. “One for you? Or…seven?”

“Actually…” starts Olivia, refusing the drink with a brief wave of her hand, “I can’t stay too long tonight. Mostly, I came by to invite you over for dinner on Christmas Day. The Cash Lewis case kind of...took over Thanksgiving, and then this one, happening so close to the holidays, I just… It’d be nice to have a big family celebration. Plus, I kind of owe it to Noah and Tucker, you know? ”

“Tucker considers me to be family? How…quaint,” replies Rafael drolly, sipping at the amber liquid with a sly smile.

“Noah and I do, and you know that,” she assures, dismissing his line of objection with a quickness that could only suggest that she was prepared for his little protestation. “And besides, you’re not the only one who’ll be there.”

“Wasn’t it you who just implied that coworkers don’t exactly want to spend time with each other outside of work, least of all around the holidays?” He retorts, tone mildly amused in light of the irony. “Invite the whole squad, and they’ll be putting in for overtime pay.”

“Well, it won’t be the whole squad. Carisi’s cooking up a storm with his family out in Staten Island, and Declan’s flying out from — God only knows where, really — to spend time with Jesse and Amanda.”

“So… You, Tucker, Fin, Noah, and me? Sounds more like a Conviction Integrity meeting you couldn’t find a babysitter to cover.”

“Rafa,” she reproaches, dismissing his jest with a light smile. “We’ve got some old friends coming by, too. Some people I thought that you’d, uh… That maybe you’d be interested in meeting.”

“Right.” The contour of his tone descends immediately, the sharp corners of his smile falling in parallel motion at her revelation. His gaze darkens with warning, voice lowering to a gravelly timbre as he cautions, “Liv. I’m bound to get an earful of this from my mother around this time of year. I don’t need it from you.”

“Look, I know he’s not the gold standard for decision-making at its finest, but maybe the DA had a point with his gift. You and I both understand the kind of toll this job takes, and… At the end of the day, having something to ground you back to the world — something that you can...hold with both hands, something that's all your own, something that reminds you that there’s light at the end of the tunnel — It helps, Rafa. On days like today, after a week like we've had? God, it really helps.”

At first, he says nothing in response, not because there isn’t anything to _say_ , of course; he’s a **lawyer —** a word which could easily be defined simply as ‘a person who will die arguing a point they don’t necessarily believe in’ — but he chooses to refrain from leaning into the immediacy of his thoughts, too interested in preserving the flame of their friendship than extinguishing it with a whisper of words he couldn’t take back. 

After a moment, he resorts to the classic evasion technique of answering with a question. "You're recommending that I find, what, exactly... Company?"

“Well... All the suits and ties and bottles of scotch in the world can comfort you as much as your wallet allows, but they’ll never greet you when you come home.”

Briefly, and out of his personal flair for the dramatic, his mind entertains the notion that this is Olivia’s version of cruelty — but reality washes away the thought soon enough. In truth, cruelty is something foreign to his friend’s nature, but her commitment to honesty was something else entirely. _That_ alone might as well be her identifying virtue, laced into her DNA from birth, her integrity and persistence resulting in as many breakthroughs for their cases as headaches for the ADA. Today in particular, Liv’s honesty skews towards the latter; if he wanted to wax poetic, he’d say that her honesty is a _knife_ , slipping between his ribs when he least expects it in the hopes of forcing him to confront the _truth_.

Then again, the _truth_ was not a guarantor of happiness — in fact, if Olivia had shown him anything over the past few years, it was that, all too often, confronting the truth came at great personal risk, and honor and self-seeking sanctity were often damned in its wake. In a certain light, one could argue that his life ( the life he _achieved_ , not the life he was born into ), was not necessarily born of a complete truth, but instead built upon splinters of denial and dismissal, pinching at his skin as he ascended social and occupational ladders, never once forgetting his roots but sacrificing the totality of their presence nonetheless. 

Privately, he supposes that the continuing logic, should he acquiesce to his friend's request, is one that would lead him further down his self-imposed rabbit hole of deceit; at this point, if he were to allow _intimacy_ in the way she prescribed, the other person involved wouldn’t know _him_ , but the version of Rafael Barba he’d pushed himself to be — the man he had grown _into_ upon learning the wicked ways of the world: someone he _was_ and someone he was continually _becoming_ , past selves shed like an old skin, discarded and left in the locked room of his memories. 

At forty-five, he was an expert at sacrificing little parts of himself for his own betterment — a living, breathing contradiction if there ever was one, but one he'd seemingly been perfectly content to exist within, guard rails raised to ensure he only ever remained on track. There was no room for anything ( or _anyone_ ) else, not because he didn't _want_ it, but because he simply **couldn't** have it. He'd deprive himself of that which he so quietly craved, taking comfort instead in the structure of his work and blowing off stress in one more bottle of too-expensive bourbon and, upon the event of a particularly bad string of cases, a one-night-stand. This was the routine Rafael had entertained ever since he started at the DA's office nearly twenty years ago, and it was one he didn't quite know how to let go of, not now with his walls built sky-high even if his life's _modus operandi_ dug him further and further into the ground.  
  
Liv was the one who came closest to breaking down his barriers — not that they'd ever been _intimate_ in that way, of course, but there was a kind of indisputable love between them, a bond born from their shared passion for work, and built upon by trust _and_ trauma in equal measure. It was practically _palpable;_ anyone around them could feel it and know, without question, the lengths the two would go for each other, the bond they’d formed, the family they’d created — _one that was currently demanding his attention_ , his inner dialogue reminds, as his mind returns to the present, gaze turned back to Liv.

After a too-long moment of thought, he allows his expression to lighten up as he offers with his standard half-amused sarcasm, “Sounds like it’s time for me to get a puppy.”

In other words: _let’s table this_.

With Rafael, and perhaps _only_ with Rafael, Olivia knows defeat when it’s looking her in the eye, and she leans forward to add, perhaps only because she knows that even _this_ is only temporary, “It could be surprisingly good for you.”

At this, his self-satisfied countenance lapses, attention flickering back to the impromptu meeting two weeks earlier, and the text which read eerily similar to the lieutenant's guileless comment. There was a particular sting to the memory, a kind of unknown venom clouding his thoughts as he remarks, half-dazed, “I seem to be making a habit of refusing whatever it is someone else thinks is good for me.”

“So what else is new?” The woman asks rhetorically as she shoots a conspiratorial glance in the direction of the whiskey bottle — it's a look which should inspire a smirk or an eye-roll from her friend, but is instead returned with a blank absence, as though he'd uncharacteristically drifted off to dreamland. Her brows furrow lightly at his sudden mental departure from their conversation, finely-honed detective instincts connecting the dots between his last statement and the shift in demeanor. “You wanna talk about it?”

The prosecutor opens his mouth to speak but can’t commit to making a sound, a shaky exhale taking the place of his words. Hesitation is not usually his _modus operandi_ , least of all with Olivia, but there’s a quiet fear vibrating through his thoughts, largely centered around how she’ll react to even just the _possibility_ of him moving into the DA’s seat.

Years at Harvard and subsequent courtrooms had taught him more than enough to know precisely how to spin what could be argued as _selfishness_ into the revelation of a _silver lining_ ; that is to say, what might seem to her a flagrant beacon of egotism and ambition, might instead actually be an evolution for the betterment of both their jobs — not just his own. He’d planned for the conversation even though he hadn't officially committed to it, mental answer trees mapped out in preemptive preparation for a dialogue he currently didn’t know how to have.

“Might have to...get a puppy on that one, too,” he states, and his response is convincingly customary enough to delude her into thinking it’s not _fear_ that’s caused the hesitation, but, alternatively, a simple ( albeit unprecedented ) lack of preparedness on his part. If there was one thing he counted on his friend to expect, it was that he _needed_ the facts before diving headfirst into anything risky — and to him, where Liv was concerned, there were greater risks at stake than just the tribulations of a political run.

“Okay,” the lieutenant replies with a soft smile, accepting the finality of their halted conversations as she moves to exit the office. “Sunday, Christmas dinner. Bring someone if you don’t want Bobby chatting you up all night.” Olivia departs too quickly for him to respond with some witty retort, and so he’s left to simply sit back in his seat, slack-jawed in surprise and exhaust.

If Rafael were a lesser man, he’d simply let history repeat itself come Sunday: feign enough disinterest to keep the world at arm's length and allow it in only when he decided it was best. If he were a lesser man, he’d allow his favored bottle of whiskey to prove itself once more as the steadfast companion it’d been since his first year of law school, continuing the tradition of finding solace in something quicker than therapy ( and cheaper, too ) rather than proper companionship. Alas, he is, for better or for worse, greater than the sum of his past selves and his current temptations, and is instead simply a man forever combatting his deep-buried desire for _closeness_ with the potent, practically incurable fear of actually _being_ close. 

Tonight, however, whether inspired by his current low-grade inebriation or perhaps just the insistence of his friend, he pulls out his cell phone, fingers hovering over his contacts list until he settles on a single name that’d been tugging at the far corners of his mind over the past few weeks. The occupational hazard of _neglect_ caused him to disregard her calls, and so he hesitates for just a moment, steeling himself for what he can only assume will be her all-too-eager reproach.

The metallic chime of the dial tone is the only sound permeating through his empty office, each subsequent ring reverberating in his ears as a growing anxiety gnaws at his stomach. He'd rather suffer a thousand deaths before leaving a voicemail, let alone one in which he was requesting her _help_ , and so he lowers a finger to hang up the call, stopping only at the unexpected click at the other end, a brief preamble to the woman's audible smirk as she asks, “Well... Isn’t this a nice surprise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely feedback!!
> 
> So... This one's not quite at the 'holiday seasons' as promised in last chapter's end notes. ( You know when you've had something written out for ages and then decide last minute that it's just not the right™️ move and have to rewrite everything? Yeahhh. ) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the exposition of this chapter — exploring Rafael's thoughts and shading out parts of his personality are incredibly daunting tasks, but also such fun!
> 
> Next chapter will 100% be the aforementioned Christmas dinner at Liv's :)


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